Instability
by RedneckPlasticFlamingo
Summary: The Ares cabin find a son of Hermes in the arena. One-shot(?)


Chris Rodriguez kept a wary eye on the Ares kids as as he loped across the floor of the training arena, his head down and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his faded black jeans. It must have been pretty obvious that he was just a visitor; that he wasn't looking to pick a fight, but even as a dismissible shadow in the torchlight, he wasn't guaranteed any safety when it came to the Ares kids. Each of them were dangerous in an expansive number of ways, and though they did most of the defending-Camp-Half-Blood stuff, he wasn't very sure if they actually cared about the camp of if they put themselves in the line of fire because it meant a good battle.

Chris walked, double-checking too frequently to assure himself that his pace was natural and easy. On most days, getting pummeled didn't see the parchment of his to-do list. Not that he kept a to-do list, by the way, - that was the kind of crap his mom would figure out - but if he _were_ a housewife and he _did_ do crap like that, becoming a Mexican pancake at the hands of Ares kids wasn't one of the things he'd plan for his day. The vicious teens battled around him, clanging and swinging swords that Chris knew they could damn-easily use to spear him through the middle with a shuffle and a jab.

A few of their eyes glinted red in the firelight through focused squints. The bulky teens had their father's glare. Heated, yet when you came close enough, cold and enlightening. They were passionate enough about stabbing, that was for sure. Again, their father's bloodlust.

Someone cried out from the corner of the arena, and Chris let his eyes flit in that direction. It sounded like a girl's shout to his ears. More clashes. A body slumped to the ground, and the noise of heavy boots came onto Chris. A gloved hand squeezed onto his shoulder. The force struck him as inevitably impressive as it yanked him to turn.

The girl was smaller than him by a few inches. She was curvy, strong, but Chris had the advantage in his size. Her honey-and milk skin glistened with sweat in the torchlight, her blush as angry as the furrow of her brows as she glared at him. Unlike Ares, her lips were pink and thick and her eyes a striking silver color. Her chestnut brown hair was tied carelessly aside.

She looked Chris over and must have liked what she saw, because she stopped for a moment before her smirk formed. "You must be Christine. A Hermes boy? Right?"

Chris wasn't a dumbass; the question was rhetorical. He watched her look him up and down again, but this time, she was confident. Her smirk was evil peeled over those pearly white teeth. "Soldiers, come take a gander at this one," she shouted, a laugh shaking her words, and as laughter quaked through the arena, Chris felt laughing eyes sear marks into his skin.

The girl reached up and shoved a hand through his jet-black hair, grinning. She muttered, "Wonder how many Gods-damned tubs of gel this crap took . . ."

"Not many," Chris told her. He didn't smile when he said it, which made the words more off-putting. "Four or five, y'know? It's not like we're gonna run out anytime -"

The girl groaned, and with a jerk, she pulled the spear up so it crackled electric sparks only an inch from his bare neck. Chris kept his expression dark, reactionless. As a son of Hermes, he was skilled at deception. The girl, Clarisse, he remembered, had a vicious curl to her upper lip. "You scared, punk?" she growled at him. Inwardly, he shrugged. Apparently he wasn't skilled enough at deception to keep this hot mess from sniffing at him.

He was a fairly tall and muscled guy, measuring somewhere around six feet in height the last time he bothered to check, but her silver eyes seemed inches away, burning and sizzling with passion like hot coals. Chris' response was stupid as hell in hindsight, but he didn't find himself regretting it. "I'm more afraid at the fact that Ares made you the counselor of his cabin."

He didn't bite his tongue. Clarisse's eyes looked less offended than Chris had sworn they would. She wasn't going at him with that spear of hers. He could push a little more. "You're a bit . . . _unstable,_" he told her.

And for a moment, her face grew soft with thought. Her silver eyes simmered, glittering in the firelight. "In this camp, Christine, instability is a _gift._ A_ tool._"

Then she glanced down at his empty hands. Chris found himself following her gaze, looking away when he found her ample chest but for some reason, Clarisse wasn't smirking at that. "You forget your weapon, punk?" She asked him, and looking down at his hands, he realized he had. He couldn't even remember what he'd come for, as a matter of fact.

But there was no way he was going to admit that to this chick. "What do you mean?" He asked sternly, and the girl cocked her head at him. A surge of electricity sprouted through the tip of her spear with a snap beneath his neck. He glowered at her. "Look, I didn't come here for a fight, I—"

"Could use the exercise?" She cut him off, and that smirk was still plastered across her beautiful face. But it seemed to fade when she swept over his body with those startling silver eyes. Chris could feel his fists loosen to nothing more than strong and idle hands hanging by his sides. Clarisse seemed to have found her words, and the way she looked at his body piqued an interest deep inside him. He wanted to look into this girl. "I . . . I disagree," she told him.

_Oh. About the exercise thing,_ Chris thought. _Alright then._

Chris found himself always wanting to smirk whenever she glared into his eyes. And that was kind of what Clarisse was doing now. Her eyes said he was some kind of an idiot, but they were soft at the same time. Her mouth was pink and appealing.

Chris nearly jumped when Clarisse let her spear clatter to the ground. A spark bubbled from its tip in agitation. She was looking at him with her eyes completely soft now.

"Whoa - whoa. Clarisse." Chris lifted his hands to block her movements, but he couldn't quite bring himself to move away from her. Something in her demeanor told him that he shouldn't. Her eyes; they beckoned for him. And then she was a foot away from him and Chris could only pay attention to the was she had his gaze focused on his lips.

He nearly shook feeling her hot breath on his mouth, and by the twinkle in Clarisse's eyes, she could feel his breath on hers. "Clarisse," he repeated, but the plea was futile and he knew it. His voice was pitiful; breathy as he murmured.

And one last time with those silver eyes, Clarisse looked up at him and Chris felt her hand create a grip around his arm hard enough to bruise it. Her thumbnail dug a nice scar into his skin. But to him, it didn't really matter as long as he could feel the skin of her lips easing closer. He could smell the sweetness of ambrosia nectar and strawberries on her breath.

And he didn't move a muscle.

But that was mostly because he could hear the sound of boots pounding from behind Clarisse. Chris squeezed his eyes shut in irritation.

"What in Hades -_ Clarisse!_" Her brother shouted.

Chris should have seen it coming. The daughter of Ares pulled his arm and sent him to his stomach on the ground, where the leather was unnervingly cool. He felt her thighs press into his back and listened to the sound of her knees dropping on either side of him.

He was annoyed by the strength she had. And then his arm was forced high behind him, and he listened to the sound of the howl he gave at the harrowing pain.

The daughter of Ares grunted as Chris could feel her lean close to him. Her pants were hot. They blew air warm against his ear. "What, _Christine?_" She hissed at him. She shoved his arms again and hurt him more. He could feel eyes on him now. The sparring in the arena had stopped and Chris gasped in Clarisse's hold. "Y - you can't _handle_ it?" Mocked the girl.

Chris grit his teeth at her. The side of his face ached against the cold leather floor and he spat dust from his sore and bleeding lips. He didn't remember when they had broken. He could hear the quake of some Ares kid's chuckle.

Clarisse pushed off of Chris. He shoved at his arms one final time, and stood, leaving him to listen to the deep, echoing noise of his scream. People were gathering, now. All types of cabins were watching him writhe on the floor and cower at this abysmal girl. Her eyes carried venom as she looked over her shoulder at him. But behind the sting of her burning gaze, there was a weakness. Something shook Chris about that empty grey stare, and goosebumps made the hair rise on his arms.

"You can't handle _anything,_ Chris Rodriguez."

Her eyes still held that _something_ when she looked away. Chris didn't give a damn. The weight of a hundred eyes were weighing down on his beaten body. They were all judgmental. Too curious for their own good.

Chris shifted painfully and let his eyes follow Clarisse's graceful movements as she knelt to grab her spear. Her half brother moved toward him with a sword, and that was all it took for the daughter of Ares to send it crashing to the ground with a glare and an angry electric burst.

Her eyes were soft and cool. The moment Chris climbed to his knees, she picked up her pace in the opposite direction, shoving through a crowd of Aphrodite children.

Chris watched with cloudy vision as a girl broke away from her cabin. Black hair flowed in glowing waves behind her shoulders. The name Silena Beauregard rang vaguely in Chris' mind. And then it stuck. And when she tore into the forest, they were both gone.


End file.
